Old Friends, Old Cops, Old Soldiers
by fragrantfields
Summary: Speculative fic, slightly AU, SPOILERS FOR S6 FINALE! John Teller once helped a fellow GI in 'Nam and earned the mysterious soldier's undying (literally) gratitude. As he succumbs to his injuries, JT asks for just one thing...that his death be avenged. The mysterious soldier-spirit begins a long, long game.


A/N: This has **SPOILERS for SoA's 6th season finale,** and is totally speculative and AU in nature. It was written within days of the finale and I'm still processing how I feel about the outcome. I don't wish any harm to any of the characters, but OTOH, I've read "Hamlet," and although this fic veers from Gertrude's exact fate, I can see Sutter setting this up.

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The long-haired ruin of a man lay dying in a hospital bed, reeking of old blood and piss. It would be soon. His family, what was left of it, what he could legitimately claim as his family, had left hours ago. If he could have moved, if he had a voice, he would have howled at the betrayal and warned his son to run as far away as he could.

The wreck had left his vocal chords mangled, his limbs useless. His spirit hovered over him, waiting to be set free.

Even dying, the man sensed a presence. Who's there? he whispered, through his mind or his spirit, whatever was left of him that could ask.

"It's me, JT. It's Dugout. You remember."

And he did remember. He had carried the young soldier two miles through the jungles of the Nam, holding him together long enough for morphine and a field phone to work their magic. Dugout had been able to tell his wife and son he loved them before he slipped away. JT had never had a chance to ask what the unusual sigil was on the ring next to his dog tags, and he guessed it didn't matter after that.

The second time he was the only grunt to survive a firefight, he began to wonder if he had a guardian angel.

He stayed lucky until he started running guns. After that, he became subject to the same injuries and insults as any other man, even more than most, it felt like. Whatever had kept him safe was long gone.

Until now. A part of him dared to hope…but the soldier before him, still looking like the twenty-year-old grunt he'd been, shook his head.

"Your wounds are too great, and your spirit's too drained, JT. It's beyond me to help you." The specter took on the look of the battle berserker he'd been years ago, rage barely contained. "But I can avenge your death. I can still do that much."

Let my son grow to manhood, the dying man implored. When the time is right, when it will hurt my betrayers the most, avenge me. Let them feel the betrayal I feel, multiplied by ten, by a hundred.

Dugout's ghost still wore the dog tags…and the unusual sigil. His nod was grim as the Reaper himself.

Two nights later, a local cop, mid-thirties and carrying his own battle scars, woke with a hard-on and a hunger for something, anything…food, liquor, weed, sex…it didn't matter. His appetites that night frightened his wife, before her fear was blasted into bits by her husband's new-found passion.

By morning, he was back to normal. and Della told herself she'd been dreaming.

Years later, she noticed an occasional change in his eyes, but chalked it up to one more oddity related to his cancer. And then she left, and didn't think of Wayne Unser much at all. He'd turned sickeningly sweet on Gemma Morrow by then. Her and her husband could take turns holding his bedpan, since they all stayed up each other's asses anyway. He hadn't been the man she'd married in years.

Not since his outlaw biker buddy John got killed.

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Icy rain trickled down the back of his shirt, blown in under the umbrella he held over his balding head. He watched the dirt fall into the grave. Gradually, he felt a presence by his side. A presence that was partially seeing him as he'd been in life, twenty-two and clad in grimy fatigues.

"Hey, do I know you?" The ghost-voice was still cigar-rough and raspy.

Dugout, or Wayne, as he'd come to think of himself after so many years in this body, answered without speaking.

"Yeah, pal. I'm the guy who's been running your boy Wayne here since you and Gemma murdered my friend."

"Fuck me," the voice said, surprise and dismay echoing through their corner of the next plane.

"Oh, I did." The figure shrugged. "A suspicion here, an urge to slip letters into a backpack there, a doubt, a rumor…it wasn't hard. You did most of the work for me."

"What happens now?" Fear began to simmer in the raspy voice.

"To you?" The blend of Dugout and Wayne Unser shrugged. "Beats me. I never been to where you're going. Be patient, though…company's coming."

He walked away from the graveside and the trapped specter that had been the essence of Clay Morrow. The ounce of altered weed, spiked with a little something extra, was wrapped double-tight and shoved deep in his pocket. He'd pick up some Jack Daniels to go with it, leave it on the dining room table.

First, though, he had to give his physical body a few hours' sleep, while he slithered dark suggestions into some of the folks who were dreaming tonight in Charming.

This one would be greedy. That one would be eaten alive with regret. The next one would suddenly realize he'd made his bed with a poisonous viper.

He felt bad, as much as his state allowed, that in carrying out JT's revenge, an innocent (more or less) woman would have to die. On the other hand…once she came to full awareness on this side of things, she could be a mighty ally in bringing down the treacherous bitch who had started the cycle of betrayal and vengeance.

A huge physical throb lurched against his consciousness. The former owner of this now cancer-ridden envelope registered his protest to the end game. Dugout sighed. He'd grown attached to the physical form of Wayne Unser, like he'd gotten attached to a crippled stray dog when he'd been a boy still in the world.

Okay, okay…you can give her some comfort in her last days. If you still want to after she does the heinous act waiting for her hand.

Or try to, anyway. If you can stomach it.

He reached his truck, thoughts of set-ups and triggers scrabbling through his mind. A very non-Unser look flashed across his features, then was gone, leaving the familiar hangdog jowly visage.

JT's spirit was tethered to his final resting place, the same as Clay's. It was a shame…he would have liked his old savior's soul to see the last stroke of vengeance.

To see Gemma realize she'd caused unspeakable, unbearable pain to the last person she loved, as her son raised the knife or gun or tire iron.

To see the look in her eyes as her beloved Jackson reaped what she and Clay had sowed.

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End file.
